Post-apocalyptic are among my favorite kinds of stories. Many of my favorite authors craft post-apocalyptic worlds that are interesting and I enjoy delving into them. This kind of prompt enabled me to take everything I love about those stories and write my own. I wrote more than I had expected but this prompt really jumped out at me more than some others that I looked at. I hope you enjoy it.
I stared down at the cowering man in the sand, knowing I looked intimidating as I gripped my glaive tightly. My tan robes, covered in tiny droplets of crimson blood, obscured my figure and the white scarf wrapped around my head hid my features, leaving only my almond-shaped, piercing green eyes, a rarity now, visible. I took a step towards the man, but he pushed himself away from me, the chains at his wrists and ankles making a harsh 'clank' in the desert air.
He began babbling at me in his native tongue, raising his manacled hands in a clear plea of mercy.
"There is no need to be frightened," I told him in Lingua Común, the language spoken by almost everyone in the world now. "I am not here to harm you."
He continued to trip over his words and it took me a minute to recognize it as Kazakh, one of the many almost dead languages that some miscellaneous tribes scattered throughout the world still spoke. In my line of work, an understanding of different languages was important, especially with the paycheck I was getting.
"Be calm," I said back to him in his own language, taking him by surprise. "I am freeing you."
The man shut up almost immediately. I knew I must look like a nightmare to him, covered in the blood of the slavers I had just slain and eyes flashing like an animal. I knelt in the burning sand to root through the pockets of the dead men, looking for money, trinkets and, more importantly, the keys to their victim's shackles. My mouth quirked into a slight grin as I found a large leather purse full of heavy coins as well as a set of keys made of the same dull metal as the manacles.
The man held extremely still as I unlocked the chains and let them fall to the ground with a thud. He eyed me warily, scrambling a few feet away from myself and the sand wet with the blood of the men I killed. From a distance, I had seen the slavers pull him mercilessly across the desert with little care for his well being. Most slavers treated their captured with care in order to get the best price at the slaving blocks but too many didn't care. The ones that didn't care were the ones who eagerly spent their coin at the ramshackle pubs found in the border towns the minute it was in their fingers.
The rich that lived in the thick-walled cities cared even less about a slaves condition, depending on what they were being used for. They would work a slave like the man I had saved until he dropped dead, having no more use for him than a handkerchief. The rich were stupid fools but profitable clients.
"My name is Anis," I told him slowly, watching him rub the red and raw skin around his wrist. "What is your name?"
"Kirill," the man said softly, gazing up at me with eyes as brown and soft as my dog's.
"What happened, Kirill?" I asked, his name rolling off my tongue like a song. It sounded foreign and wonderful at the same time. "How is it that you came to be in the possession of these men?"
Kirill didn't look like a weak man. His tall body was corded with muscles and he looked like he had been working his entire life. He was handsome, I had to admit. Big brown eyes with ridiculously long lashes sat under strong black brows and his nose was hooked, telling me it had been broken. Maybe more than once. He had smooth, deeply tanned skin and full, sensuous. But he had the look of someone who would not be taken willingly.
"I was out in our tribe's furthest field," he said haltingly in moderately accented Lingua Común, tracing the blistered brand, his slaver's mark, on his forearm with careful fingers. "I was ambushed and hit on my head."
My eyes were drawn to the line of dried blood that snaked from Kirill's black hair, over his temple and down his neck. It was flaky, almost completely gone, which indicated he had been out here for several days.
"Will you take me back home?" he asked, a hopeful look in his doe eyes.
"I highly doubt your village is marked on a map and I have already wasted too much time saving you," I informed him. "So no."
He looked crestfallen.
"But how am I to return home?"
"I am in the middle of a job," I told him, pulling one of the slaves head scarves off his body to clean the blood of my long weapon. "I will take you to the next border town and then you can be someone else's problem."
He looked uncomfortable at the thought, mostly likely thinking about how he would not be able to trust anyone especially after his ordeal. Good. Trust was for the weak and trust did not do anyone any good. It was unfortunate he had to learn that the hard way.
"Come," I said to him, holding out my hand to help him up. "We must find shelter before nightfall."
He hesitantly reached out and took hold of my hand, his callouses rough against my skin. A surge of heat flooded my body, sending a shock through my brain. What in all Hell had that been? I dropped his hand the minute he got to his feet, as if I had been burned.
"Let's go," I said curtly, ears pricked for the screams of the predators that roamed the area at dusk.
It turned out Kirill was a decent travel partner. Capable of staying silent and watchful, we continued through the desert until we reached the border town of Karşıyaka. I was almost hesitant to leave him in the desolate shithole. Karşıyaka was a rough and tumble town that catered to the forsaken. For people like me, who chose a life of violence and for people like my mother, a prostitute willing to sell her body to just about anyone. It was a town of low-lives and outlaws.
I had to admit, Kirill had been helpful during the two week journey. He was quick, picking up on my routine in only a day or two. He was a crack shot with a slingshot and a bow, catching several jackrabbits for us to feast on. He was also the jiraw, or storyteller, of his tribe and shared one or two legends over the fire. But I made sure not to touch him again, lest I felt the same shock of heat that I did the first time.
I glanced over at him as he silently took in border town, streets teeming with transports, cycles and camels. He looked lost and I knew everyone in this dung pile would take advantage of his ignorance. He was likely to wind up dead in an alley or back in the hands of slavers if I left him here. I heaved a sigh.
'Shit,' I thought.
"Kirill," I said, startling him. He stared at me, eyes wide in bewilderment. "I have a proposition for you."
"Yes?" he asked cautiously.
"If you agree to assist me with my work, I will do my best to get you back to your village," I told him, crossing my arms.
He watched me curiously, trying to determine if I had ulterior motives.
"Truth of the matter is, the assholes here will rob you blind, kill you or pass you off to another set of slavers," I say, gesturing to the street and the people behind him. "I will pay you and you can return to your village a rich man."
He contemplated my offer, looking thoughtful. After a moment, he nodded and gave me a shy smile.
"I like this deal," he said. "Thank you... Anis."
*Four Months Later*
I cackled with laughter, trying not to spill my steaming mug of tea all over myself as Kirill recounted the tale of his two older brothers getting chased by a bull during mating season. He has turned out to be a wonderful companion. He was witty, intelligent and had admirable instincts. He didn't even seem to mind my violent line of work, knowing when to stay away and when to return to me.
Still chuckling, I brought my mug up to my lips and hissed when I felt a bite of pain. The tender skin had caught the sharp edge of the metal cup, slicing open. I cursed, bringing my hand up to my lips. When I moved my hand, the blood on my fingertips looked eerily bright in the dancing firelight.
Kirill looked alarmed at the blood dribbling down my chin and scrambled over to me.
"Anis, let me help," he said, reaching out to press a dingy handkerchief to my cut.
I shifted uncomfortably at his proximity. Lately, I had done my best to avoid being too close to him. He was a distraction and I had been sloppier than usual in my work. Clients paid for discretion, not distraction and mess. Still, I let him gentle wipe away the blood on my face before more dripped onto my robes. I closed my eyes at the dull pain and was started to see his face close to mine when I reopened them.
"Your eyes have flecks of gold in them," Kirill said softly, tracing a finger from his free hand along my high cheek bones.
I shivered at his touch.
"You can thank my father, whoever he is, for that," I said breathlessly. "I get most of my features from my mother whose ancestry comes from the Eastern Sea regions. My eyes, however, are all him."
"At first, your eyes frightened me," Kirill confessed, removing the handkerchief to see if the bleeding had stopped. "I had never seen green eyes before. I thought you were a demon to come take me for my sins."
"You could not have so many sins that you would need to be taken to Hell by demons," I told him, voice tight in my throat.
He glanced up at me through thick lashes.
"Oh, I am not as clean as you believe me to be. I have done things I am not proud of."
My body tensed at his feather light touch traced along the lines of my collar bone, feeling hot and cold at the same time. He was much too close and I did not know what to do. This was never supposed to happen. We had maintained a comfortable and fairly respectable distance from each other for most of the time we had traveled together. What had changed all of a sudden?
For the last several weeks, all I had wanted was for him to be close to me. Bolts of electricity would jolt through me every time our arms brushed against each other. Every time he said my name, tendrils of pleasure spiraled through my body and my heart rate spiking.
I was an angel of death, good for nothing other than ending the lives of others. Kirill was a bright light against my darkness, a better man that I could ever deserve. I was not a creature worth loving and I did not have the right to want to touch him, kiss him or lay with him.
Kirill leaned in closer to me and brushed a painfully light kiss against my trembling lips and I thought I would burst into flame at the touch. I ached for him and felt desire pool low in my belly. I was unable to wrench myself away from his gaze and the only thought that crossed my mind was that he was never supposed to be mine.
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